


Crafting A Beginning

by amyfortuna



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Awkward Romance, Crafts, F/M, First Kiss, Rope Weaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 12:15:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12365577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: When Maeglin and Aredhel wind up at Nargothrond instead of Gondolin, he meets his second cousin Finduilas and falls instantly in love.





	Crafting A Beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Isilloth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isilloth/gifts).



The first person Maeglin set his eyes on in Nargothrond was a young woman about his own age, slender and tall, with hair of palest gold falling down her back like a waterfall lit by the sun. Beside her, even Finrod's dashing golden beauty seemed overdone, like a brilliant and bold sunflower next to a fragile iris, and yet there was a strength in her, something that made her hold her head up high and lit her eyes bright. 

She glanced at him, and immediately smiled, turning the radiant beauty of her face into something poets sang of, and Maeglin felt as though he was falling, swept away on a tide he didn't yet quite understand. 

Finrod turned to him after exchanging a touching embrace with Aredhel and promising them both his protection. "Greetings, Lómion, and welcome to Nargothrond! Let me introduce my niece, Orodreth's daughter, who is about your own age, I think?" He gestured to the beautiful girl, and she stepped forward, holding out her hand. "Lómion, this is your second cousin Finduilas."

Maeglin remembered just in time to extend his own hand and take hers, conscious that he had callused and rough palms from many hours in the forge, and that he had not bathed in several days while fleeing as fast as their horses would carry them from Nan Elmoth. 

They had been intending to make for Gondolin, but upon learning that Eöl was following them (courtesy of Aredhel's knowledge of bird-speech learned long ago in Valinor), turned aside, not wishing to betray Gondolin's location, and headed south, where they came upon some messengers heading to Nargothrond from Barad Eithel. Upon learning who Aredhel was, the chief of the messengers, Tolon, agreed that she and Maeglin could accompany them to Nargothrond and find protection in Finrod's realm. 

"It is a pleasure to meet you, cousin," Finduilas said, her voice low for a woman's, and softly-pitched. It was a restful voice, a voice that would sound at its best reading aloud or reciting poetry rather than shouting battle cries or arguing loudly. 

"The pleasure is mine, cousin," Maeglin answered, and was gratified to see her smile again.

* * *

Over the next few months, Maeglin established himself in Nargothrond, learning the ways of the place, the customs of the forge-smiths, and the careful politics that governed every aspect of life in the hidden city. Finrod, it transpired, despite having built the city, often liked to be away on long journeys, and so a Council had been established, which was ostensibly headed by the king, but in reality he left them to it. Finduilas, despite her youth, was an able and valued member of the Council.

Maeglin learned much more about her too. She was just under a hundred years of age, about twenty years older than him. Her father Orodreth held the fort of Tol Sirion, and she had a baby brother, Ereinion, who she had not yet met. Finduilas painted flowers and wrote poetry as pastimes, and enjoyed spending her free days in the gardens of Nargothrond, either with her paintbrush or a pen in hand. 

In addition to her duties on the Council, Finduilas was skilled in the art of weaving hithlain rope, an ancient art passed down by the Sindar. He saw her once sitting on the floor in the main living area of the royal rooms, head bent over the length of rope she was weaving together by hand, forming a thousand tiny knots almost invisible to the naked eye even of the Elves. The grey loops of rope lay scattered around her, passing through her hands and emerging finished, robust and strong. The rope so formed could not be burnt through, save in the hottest flames, could not be cut save by certain strong knives, and above all else, had the talent of knowing when the knot had to hold and when to let go. 

Maeglin, overcome by curiosity, sat down on a chair at a table a short distance away, eyes on his own work, some fine jewellery he was assembling as a gift to Finrod, having forged all the pieces earlier. Now and again he glanced over at her, but aside from exchanging a courteous nod when he'd first entered the room, she showed no sign he was there. 

"Are you having a pleasant time in Nargothrond, cousin?" she said at last. He jumped a bit. After such a long silence, he had not expected her to speak at all. Glancing over, he saw that she'd set the rope down and was carefully massaging her fingers. 

"Yes," he answered. "It's lovely here. It's never too bright or too hot, and the people I've met are pleasant too." He paused. Her expression was a little pained. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, except, well, my hands are sore. I've spent too long at this, but I wanted to get the length done today." She stood up, leaving the rope on the floor and made her way over to the table, sitting down on the chair next to Maeglin's. "See?" She held out her hands, which were red and tender in some spots. 

"That looks painful," Maeglin said. "I have a cream that I use on my hands if I burn them. I think it might help."

She nodded. "I'm willing to try anything." 

Giving her a quick smile, he got up, and slipped off to his bedroom, just down the hall next to Aredhel's. There he rummaged through the things he'd brought from Nan Elmoth and found the bottle of cream, which was originally of dwarf-make, and which he'd traded for himself the last time Eöl took him to see the dwarves. He hurried back to Finduilas, who gave him a bright smile as he approached, holding the bottle in his hand.

"You don't need much," he said, and carefully spread a small amount onto her hands. "Would you like me to massage the cream in?"

"Yes, if you would please," she said, smiling. Maeglin, not looking at her face, bent his attention to her hands, running the cream across them, smoothing it in using small circles, the same way he would to his own hands of an evening. She gave a small sigh of happiness at one point and allowed him to manipulate her fingers one by one, stretching them carefully, rubbing between them, over her palms and all the way up to her wrists. 

He was somewhat breathless by the end. Her hands were too lovely, and he couldn't help but think that they would look even lovelier running through his hair, or caressing him. He didn't dare breathe a word of it, or even look up, just pretended to focus on ensuring that her hands were fully relaxed from their strenuous tasks. 

When he couldn't stretch it out any longer, he set her hands gently back down on the table. "There," he said, finally daring to look up and meet her eyes. She was smiling, a gentle light of happiness on her face, and appeared to have enjoyed his touch very much. He breathed an internal sigh of relief. "Feel better?"

"Very much, cousin," she said. "I'll come to you every time I need my hands massaged."

"Please do!" he said. "It's no trouble." 

She gave him another smile before rising and collecting her rope, winding it about her hand and arm in a way that looked more complicated than it was. "If you ever need a bit of rope," she said as she passed him on her way out of the room, "you know where to go." 

"Thank you, my lady!" he called after her, and heard in reply her musical laughter. 

* * *

Finrod as a rule was fond of parties, and Nargothrond was well-known for its extravagant celebrations as one of the most prosperous of the Noldorin realms. That spring a fine ball was arranged, and Maeglin was kept busy with commissions of jewellery for it, including a piece for his own mother, and one for Finrod. 

He was passing through the common room three days before the ball and came upon Finduilas sitting at the common table, looking distraught. "What's the matter, cousin?" he asked, not hesitating now to stop and speak with her. 

"My dress is all ready for the dance," she said, "but the necklace I was planning to wear has broken, and there won't be time to mend it." She put the necklace down on the table, a pretty thing composed of emeralds and diamonds, just the right thing for a spring dance, but clearly at some point it had been stepped on, for several of the small jewels had been lost altogether, and the clasp was crushed. 

"It needs to be restrung entirely and the jewels replaced," Maeglin said. He took a deep breath, considering his rapidly dwindling stores. "I can do it for you." He did not have enough diamonds, in truth. 

"Can you?" Finduilas sounded elated. "It would make me so happy to be able to wear this -- it's one of my favourite necklaces." 

"It will look its fairest on your throat at the ball," Maeglin said, carefully picking all the pieces up. 

He spent the next few hours frantically searching for diamonds in his stores, of the type and size needed for the necklace. After asking several of his fellow smiths, pleading on the grounds that it was for the Princess, he finally managed to accumulate the necessary amounts, formed the jewels into the correct sizes and shapes, and spent a busy night restringing the whole necklace in the correct pattern on a much more durable metal chain, then forging a new clasp that would not come undone as easily as the last one had. 

On the evening of the ball, he ventured nervously into the common room, and sat down at the table, dressed in his finest garments. His mother had already departed for the ball, and so too had Finrod, as the host. 

After a few minutes, Finduilas came out of her room. She was wearing her bright golden hair in curls, cascading down across her fair shoulders. Her green gown was cut more deeply than he had ever seen an Elven woman wear, and he felt himself flushing red up to his hair at the sight of her bosom so uncovered. She was not in any way immodest, it was just that he was naïve, he told himself, and stood up to greet her. 

"Lady Finduilas, you look utterly beautiful!" he said as she approached him, and she smiled, ducking her head. He held out the box he was carrying. "I have your necklace ready for you." 

"Oh! Let me see it!" she said, and he lifted the lid. 

She cried out with joy, clasping her hands at her breast. "It looks even more beautiful than it did before! You are a wonder, Lómion!" 

If anything he blushed even harder. "Thank you. But it was my pleasure entirely," he said. 

She held up her hair, turning around. "Put it on me?" she asked. 

He took the necklace out with shaking fingers, placing it around her neck, and clasping the two ends together securely. "There," he said. 

She turned, almost within the circle of his arms, letting go of her hair as she did so. It tumbled in sweet-smelling waves across his arm, and she leaned in close. "Thank you," she whispered, and kissed him, brief but sweet. It was not by any means a cousinly kiss. 

His eyes fluttered shut and he reached out for her, drawing her back into his arms again. She came willingly, and once again their lips met. This kiss was longer, more intimate, yet delicate and soft. 

"At the ball," she whispered against his lips, "will you dance with me?"

"The whole evening if you wish it," he answered, "and however many days after that when you'd have me dance with you."

"Then we shall never stop," she said, and he opened his eyes to her smile.


End file.
